


now we can paint a picture

by themarvelousmaize



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Witcher Sentiments, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, Friends to Lovers, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, Multi, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Polyamory Negotiations, Pre-OT3, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, Smoking, Tender Sex, Yennefer is the only one with a braincell, also some sugar daddy!Jaskier if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28243863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themarvelousmaize/pseuds/themarvelousmaize
Summary: “Geralt, you have to let me tag along. Please. A reputation simply cannot be reformed with one song alone, you know.”In Kaer Morhen, the mountains surrounding the keep have been whittled into fine, pointed peaks. The powerful winds had rushed at the mountains, season after season, year after year, over and over again until they were weathered down, irreversibly changed. It’s the image that pops into Geralt’s head as he finds himself saying, “Fine,” blinking in surprise at his own acquiescence. “But you do as I say, and you keep quiet.”Jaskier nods and mimes his lips pressing shut. “Silent backup,” he assures.“Hm.”Geralt rolls his eyes, bringing the tankard up to his mouth. He’s heard that one before.Or: Witchers aren’t supposed to want anything. Except Geralt’s never been very good at the not wanting part.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 15
Kudos: 243





	now we can paint a picture

**Author's Note:**

> Confession. This is actually my second time posting this fic. I took it down a few hours after posting it the first time in a fit of anxiety. But thanks to wonderful encouragement from the many wonderful folks in this fandom, and amazing beta-ing from the lovely [inkinhart](https://inkinhart.tumblr.com/) this fic is back and here to stay. 
> 
> Title taken from “Sexual” by NEIKED & Dyo, which was among a frankly alarming array of sexy techno pop songs I listened to while I wrote this fic. Do with that what you will :)

Witchers aren’t supposed to want anything. Witchers aren’t supposed to need or be needed. Witchers are supposed to walk the Path and kill monsters, for however many decades it takes until a monster finally gets the best of them. Their bodies are broken and rebuilt with a cocktail of mutations designed to make them stronger, faster, deadlier. Emotions that aren’t conducive to monster hunting - fear, sadness, worry, doubt - are dulled to nothing but a low hum at the back of the skull. 

Love, family, companionship - they’re all incompatible with a life of blood, gore, and monster guts, so Witchers learn not to want them.

Geralt’s never been very good at the not wanting part. 

*****

After Posada, Geralt drops off the bard at one of the better-kept taverns the next town over and tries not to think about him again. 

He fails. Quite spectacularly. 

For one, the bard’s song trails him like a curse - _or a blessing_ , Geralt’s traitorous brain whispers - in villages, towns, and cities alike; inside dingy taverns and musty inns where the smell of damp, rotting wood is so pungent it overpowers all other smells. 

Even though Jaskier bent truth and history to suit his purposes, Geralt has to begrudgingly admit that the bard knows how to craft a catchy song. More incredibly, it works. Within a month, there’s a noticeable shift in how people treat Geralt. Yes, the townsfolk still draw their shoulders up tight and unease clenches their jaws when they spot the two swords at his back and his yellow eyes, but no one’s stoning him out of villages anymore. He even manages to get innkeeps to rent him a room and stable Roach when he’s got the coin to afford it. 

The treatment would barely qualify as decent for anyone else, but for a Witcher - for _Geralt_ \- it’s nothing short of remarkable. Who knew humans could be so easily swayed by strings of rhyming words that are set to music? 

Damn him. That chatty little bard - _Jaskier,_ Geralt’s brain supplies oh so helpfully - had made good on his promise of improving Geralt’s currently disastrous reputation. 

It’s how Geralt finds himself failing _not_ to remember Jaskier, with the sun dusting his hair and lighting up his eyes, as he told Geralt _respect doesn’t make history_ with all the wisdom and certainty of someone decades older than his eighteen years.

Geralt’s chest tightens, his body flooding with heat. Melitele help him, the bard is only eighteen. Barely a man. Just a _boy_. Geralt has no business feeling the warm drip of arousal curling at the base of his spine. He’s not supposed to want a human bard with lofty aspirations of fame and whose cheeks are still rounded with youth. He’s not supposed to want _anything_. 

Witchers are only meant for a life of blood and gore and monster hunting. It’s all humans want from them; it’s all they’re good for. 

Jaskier’s song was as much for Geralt as it was for his own ambitions. It’ll help the bard achieve fame, line his pockets with coin, and eventually land him some cushy position with a lord or at the court of some monarch. 

He might as well put all thoughts of Jaskier out of his mind. Geralt will never see him again. 

*****

Geralt runs into Jaskier exactly two months later in Carcano. 

Parking himself at the far back of the tavern with a tankard of mediocre ale, he watches Jaskier lead the crowd in a raucous, drunken chorus of what is a filthy ditty about a fishmonger. The bard comes alive as he performs, brown hair curling faintly from the sweat on his forehead. Geralt’s extremely disgruntled to find that his stupid, stupid, mutagen-enhanced brain had committed every single detail of Jaskier’s face perfectly. Everything from the golden flecks in the ocean blue of those eyes, to the clean-shaven curve of his jaw, to the wicked grin curling his mouth, is exactly as Geralt had preserved in the far corners of his mind; the pretty picture he’s tried so hard to forget. 

He grips his tankard so hard he feels it bend beneath his fingers. He briefly wishes he could disappear. 

No such luck.

“Ah, Geralt! Fancy running into you here!”

_Fuck._

Jaskier slides onto the bench across from him with a wide smile. This close, Geralt can smell the rose water and clove fragrance Jaskier seems to favour, and he can’t resist taking a deeper inhale. The scent had been in his nose the entire way up the mountain in Dol Blathanna, aromatic but not overpowering or cloying, like other perfumes Geralt’s been exposed to. 

“It’s so good to see you! How have you been?” Jaskier continues, open and earnest. His fingers - entirely bedecked with golden rings - enclose around his rusted goblet of cheap, sour wine. 

“Hm.” It’s only thanks to the years of intensive training he went through that Geralt does not shuffle. No one’s ever been as genuinely happy to see him as Jaskier seems to be. Certainly not anyone _human_. All around them, the typical hustle and bustle of a tavern continues. The air reeks of human sweat and alcohol and wood rot. 

Jaskier’s smile doesn’t budge, incredibly, bafflingly, not put off in the least by Geralt’s lack of responsiveness. Idiotic, ridiculous, pretty bard. “So what brings you to Carcano, my friend?” Jaskier asks, even as his eyes wander around the tavern with mild interest. Geralt watches him flick a finger up and immediately a barmaid scurries to their table, a pretty blush reddening her cheeks when Jaskier grins up at her. 

“I’m not your friend,” grunts Geralt at the same time as Jaskier says, “Could I trouble you for another glass of wine, darling? And whatever my friend’s having, please,” like he hasn’t heard Geralt at all. Or, perhaps more disconcertingly, like he’s heard and isn’t bothered. 

The barmaid tips her head. “Yes, of course. Right away.” 

Jaskier smiles even wider, directing the full force of it onto Geralt. Geralt suddenly knows why the barmaid had blushed as deep and as red as she did. Being on the receiving end of that smile is an experience. Geralt feels his neck grow hotter than even the sweltering, musty temperature inside the tavern can account for. 

“Are you here for a contract?” Jaskier asks, like they’ve never been interrupted, eyes on Geralt and Geralt alone. “Oh, please, please, _please_ tell me it’s for a contract. I’ve been itching to add a new adventure to my repertoire of songs like you wouldn’t _believe_ \--”

“Drowners,” Geralt interrupts because dear _gods_ does the bard not take a single breath as he speaks? He traces the appealing bob of Jaskier’s throat; notes the single bead of sweat that trails from the underside of his jaw, down the line of his expensive burgundy doublet and silk chemise, and towards the exposed dip of his chest --

The barmaid returns with their drinks. “Thank you so much. You’re an absolute gods-send,” says Jaskier as she sets their fresh cups down. He places his goblet and Geralt’s finished tankard on her circular wooden tray, all up in Geralt’s space like he belongs there, beaming up at her. 

If it’s possible, the barmaid flushes an even deeper red, the bright vermillion dusting not just her cheeks, but her neck and the top of her breasts too. She leaves, but not before Geralt scents smoky sweet lust in the air. He briefly wonders what it would be like, to be wanted with only a bat of eyelashes and some pretty words. 

“Drowners!” Jaskier’s eyes come alive and he claps his hands excitedly, the rings on his fingers clicking together. “My _History of Monsters and Necrophages_ professor at Oxenfurt was a bit dull but even he made them sound exciting. I’d love to see some for myself. Geralt, you have to let me tag along. Please. A reputation simply cannot be reformed with one song alone, you know.”

His eyes are wide and blue as he regards Geralt with the kind of earnestness that reminds Geralt once more that Jaskier is only eighteen years old. Young, and yet so steadfast, so sure in his ambitions. 

In Kaer Morhen, the mountains surrounding the keep have been whittled into fine, pointed peaks. The powerful winds had rushed at the mountains, season after season, year after year, over and over again until they were weathered down, irreversibly changed.

It’s the image that pops into Geralt’s head as he finds himself saying, “Fine,” blinking in surprise at his own acquiescence. “But you do as I say, and you keep quiet.”

Jaskier nods and mimes his lips pressing shut. “Silent backup,” he assures. 

“Hm.” 

Geralt rolls his eyes, bringing the tankard up to his mouth. He’s heard that one before. 

*****

People have been disappearing near the Jaruga river, along a popular route merchants, peddlers, and all manners of travelers take to get to Carcano, so Geralt heads there in search of the drowners. Jaskier walks beside him as he rides Roach, lute firmly at his back although he’s humming some nonsensical tune under his breath. 

The bard is perpetually making noise, Geralt realizes. If he’s not talking, he’s singing or breathing loudly - heavy sighs that seem to come from deep within his lungs. Even his footsteps are noisy - leaves, gravel, and twigs all crunching underneath the soles of his leather boots. 

At one point, Jaskier tilts his face up towards the sun, a beam of light hitting his hair just like a halo, and he makes a sort of satisfying noise from the back of his throat. He’s so full of noise. So _alive_. Geralt has to look away, fingers clenching tightly around Roach’s reigns.

He hears the steady burble of the river before he sees it. Geralt dismounts Roach when he spies the sandy river bank a few moments later. Jaskier trails after him, his pulse quick, like a jackrabbit in Geralt’s ears. 

“How will you lure them out?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt says, “I won’t need to. They’ll smell me and come out on their own.” He casts a glance behind him. Jaskier still only smells of burning curiosity and excitement. Just like in Posada. 

Idiot.

“Stay back,” he says for good measure, because he doesn’t trust Jaskier not to follow him in headfirst. 

Miraculously, Jaskier listens. He nods vehemently. “No need to tell me twice, I’ll just - ah - stay here with Roach. Make sure she can properly graze and --”

Geralt doesn’t bother listening to the rest. He crouches low as he approaches the river’s bank. His boots sink into loose stone and stand. The air is filled with the scent of wet moss, sweet soil, and freshly dug up roots, and - Geralt tilts his nose west - the faint, but distinct smell of rotten fish. 

He unsheathes his sword and steps closer, narrowed eyes trained on the river. The water starts to ripple and bubble. Around his neck, Geralt’s medallion hums. 

A Witcher’s work is dirty work. It’s thankless work. It’s work that will most certainly end up killing him one day. But Geralt understands it, knows it more than he knows anything else. His body was literally broken and remade for it.

When the drowners surface - a pack of five - their bodies bloated and a sickly blue-green colour, Geralt’s mind quiets, focused only on the hunt; the battle to defeat, to stay alive. 

The first two drowners Geralt manages to kill with ease, and the third goes down soon after with a well-timed blast of Igni. But the fourth manages to catch him off-guard, swiping at his heels and dragging him by the ankle into the bitter, freezing river water. Geralt grits his teeth at the sting of cold as he finds himself submerged and at the mercy of two drowners.

Every monster encounter is different and yet the same. 

There’s always this one specific moment where all the odds seem to be stacked against him, no exit strategy that he can see. It doesn’t matter if it lasts a second, a minute, an hour - in that moment, Geralt becomes convinced that this is the hunt where he finally, finally dies.

Somehow, he survives this one too.

“Oh,” says Jaskier, the picture of eloquence, when Geralt hauls himself back to the spot where he’d left the bard, carrying the decapitated head of one of the drowners. He’s covered from head to toe in drowner blood and guts, despite his brief stint in the water. It’s his normal state. 

Wordlessly, Geralt drops the severed head onto the ground. Jaskier doesn’t jump, doesn’t so much as startle, but his eyes are wide as he watches Geralt retrieve a dagger from one of Roach’s saddlebags. Geralt gets to work opening up the drowner’s head. He expects Jaskier to cower. He expects to smell the sour stink of fear. 

Jaskier leans over Geralt’s shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asks. His breath is warm on Geralt’s neck. He smells like rose water and clove, with just the slightest tinge of sweat. He sounds endlessly curious.

Geralt grunts to mask over his surprise. “I’m harvesting the brain,” he explains for reasons he cannot even begin to fathom, “I can use it for one of my potions.”

“Fascinating,” breathes Jaskier sounding for all the world like he means it. There’s a pink tongue peeking out from between plush lips and damn it all, Geralt is _not_ looking. He yanks at the lid of one of his glass jars with more force than strictly necessary and deposits the brain inside. 

The ride back to town is filled with Jaskier’s incessant chatter. “That was positively thrilling, Geralt! Oh, this has the makings of a great ballad - my greatest yet. The White Wolf fending off a pack of bloodthirsty ghouls hungry for human flesh --”

“Drowners,” cuts in Geralt wearily. “Ghouls are an entirely different kind of monster.”

“Yes, yes, yes I forgot your dislike of _embellishments_.”

“You mean not lying.”

Jaskier waves him off, and Geralt has to bite back a grin. “Semantics. Regardless, it plays well, you know, this penchant for honesty. Fitting of the valiant, honourable White Wolf. I can probably work that into the song too. It’ll be all that the courts across the Northern Kingdoms will want to hear this season.”

His entire body thrums with excitement as he speaks, hands gesturing with unabashed enthusiasm. The gemstones on Jaskier’s rings catch the light. Geralt shakes his head. There’s not an ounce of fear in the boy. He doesn’t understand it. Jaskier never reacts the way Geralt thinks he will - the way he’s _supposed_ to. The way all humans do.

They stop at the alderman’s house, and Jaskier waits outside while Geralt collects his payment. He’s not thanked. He never is. The alderman just thrusts the coin purse in his hands and ushers him out. 

“Well, Witcher,” says Jaskier. The sun is in his hair once more and his smile is wide and wicked. Geralt knows with a certainty that should frighten that this particular image of Jaskier will be emblazoned in his mind forever. “What do you say we go and find ourselves an inn for the night? Because - and I mean this in the nicest way possible - you need to have a bath. Those monster guts aren’t doing your onion smell any favours.”

Geralt hums. There’s a warmth building right beneath his breastbone. He squashes it down.

This won’t last.

*****

This ends up lasting.

*****

Days turn into months turn into years. Jaskier, incredibly, stubbornly, continues to accompany Geralt on his monster hunts across the nations of the Continent, sometimes for entire seasons on end.

Time has been almost unfairly kind to him. Jaskier loses the remnants of the baby fat on his cheeks. His calves and upper thighs become firmer, more toned, with all the walking. There’s more hair lining the broad expanse of his chest now. Hair that Jaskier shamelessly displays with low cut chemises and artfully unlaced doublets. Not a boy anymore. A man.

Geralt almost resents his age - it was easier to smother his desire when he couldn’t let himself look. 

Jaskier’s ballads about Geralt make him the most famous bard in the Northern Kingdoms. He accrues considerable coin, which he lavishly spends on expensive finery, full-bodied wines, and - on multiple occasions - Geralt himself. Geralt doesn’t really have the words to describe that sweet, unbearable warmth that twists his insides anytime Jaskier buys him jars for his potions or oils for his swords or new shoes for Roach or any of the myriad of other things he thinks Geralt would like. 

It’s not just coin that Jaskier collects over the years, but a long list of lovers too. Married lovers. Geralt loses count of how many spouses Jaskier’s cuckolded; how many times he’s had to protect Jaskier from the blade of a vengeful noble with a wounded pride. 

“Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_!” 

Jaskier is rushing towards him, his trousers unlaced and threatening to slide off his slim hips. His chemise isn’t buttoned. There’s a trail of love bites on his neck and chest, dark and red. Geralt thinks about what it would be like if he was the one to put them there. 

He plants his feet firmly on the ground as Jaskier ducks behind the wide breadth of Geralt’s body. There’s a man - a duke or an earl, Geralt doesn’t really care much for the titles of the nobility - stomping towards them, purpling at the face. 

“What did you do?” Geralt says through gritted teeth. He can feel the heat of Jaskier’s body behind him, intoxicating and utterly tempting. 

Jaskier says, “Nothing that wasn’t absolutely wanted and asked for, I can assure you.”

Geralt groans internally. One of these days, he’ll stop getting involved and Jaskier will get what he’s rightfully due. One of these days. 

“Step _aside_ , Witcher,” the noble spits out, trembling with the fury. He unsheathes his dagger. “My business isn't with you. It’s with that - that - whoreson hiding like a coward!”

Geralt doesn’t budge. He makes himself as big as possible, narrowing his eyes. Behind him, Jaskier winds fingers into his armour. “No.”

To his credit, the noble only cowers a little at being on the receiving end of a Witcher’s glare. “Witcher, I will not ask again. That rat bastard’s depravity has besmirched my family’s good name. Bedding my son the night before his wedding day! Honour _demands_ retribution.”

“ _Son_?” Geralt turns his head a fraction, unable to help the incredulity that bleeds into his voice. He still doesn’t move. 

Jaskier looks up at him with guileless blue eyes and a face like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Fuck. His lips curl wickedly. “Geralt. Surely you must know that someone as, ah, _proficient_ in the art of lovemaking as I am wouldn’t discriminate on the basis of something as inconsequential as biological sex --”

Melitele’s sake. Why the fuck did he even ask. 

“Shut. Up.”

Geralt somehow manages to convince the man not to cut off Jaskier’s balls. Jaskier is ever so grateful. He always is. 

“Really, Geralt, that was some of your best work. No jokes about me being a eunuch this time, either,” says Jaskier. Geralt is only half-paying attention. He can’t stop looking at the love bites littering Jaskier’s neck. 

It’s never Geralt that Jaskier sleeps with. He doesn’t want Geralt. It doesn’t stop Geralt from wanting him, from feeling that hot flash of _need_ deep in his gut, to grab and take and never let go. Especially when Jaskier continues to talk about Geralt like he’s the gods-damn saviour of the North, like he’s someone _worthwhile_ , like Jaskier values _him_ , wants and needs _him_ specifically. Or the way Jaskier takes care of him, tends to him with coin and baths and food. 

He doesn’t want Geralt. Not the way Geralt wants him.

*****

“What’s this?” Geralt grunts when Jaskier drops a small parcel wrapped in thick paper and tied together with twine. 

Jaskier smiles teasingly. “It’s a _gift_. Surely you know what those are, Geralt.”

Geralt turns the parcel over in his hands. It’s small, compact, and rectangular in shape. He hasn’t the faintest idea what it could be. “What for?” 

“Does it _have_ to be for anything?” Jaskier says. Geralt raises his eyebrows. “Okay, _fine_ , consider it an early Koliada present from me. Go on, open it.”

There’s a riot in Geralt’s chest. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Oh, pish posh. Your company and your adventures are enough of a gift for me. Perhaps you may spare the occasional evocative detail from your monster hunts from now on,” says Jaskier. He has the nerve to wink. “Now _please_ open it. Before my soul leaves this mortal coil.”

Geralt rolls his eyes, even as his lips inch upwards. He delicately unravels the twine and the paper. “Gwent cards,” he says, looking at the brand new deck, delicately embossed, painted a beautiful blue. The same shade as Jaskier’s eyes. 

“I know how much you like to play. Now you have your own deck.”

He’s looking at Geralt with so much unadulterated fondness in his eyes. Geralt’s tongue feels too big in his mouth. He shouldn’t read into this, he shouldn’t - Jaskier is just being his ridiculously generous self. “Thank you,” Geralt manages to say, all other words too tangled up in his throat. 

There’s a warm press of a hand on his shoulder. It sears straight to Geralt’s soul. “You’re welcome.”

Jaskier still beds the pretty barmaid that night. Geralt pretends he isn’t bothered. He succeeds, mostly.

He’s had a lot of practice over the years. 

*****

“Lute strings? Geralt, these don’t feel like typical lute strings. What are they made of?”

“Selkimore guts. They’re sturdier. Stronger. They won’t snap easily.”

“Geralt,” breathes Jaskier. “Thank you. You shouldn’t have.”

“Hm,” says Geralt. “Consider it a late Koliada present.”

*****

Once, already a few years into his acquaintance with Jaskier, Geralt got badly injured trying to take down a cockatrice. He’d succeeded, but that thrice-damned bastard had taken a sizable chunk of flesh out of his left thigh. Geralt went back to the tavern with mud and blood in his hair, a pronounced limp, and blood gushing down his thigh in thick rivulets. He was convinced Jaskier would balk.

Jaskier didn’t balk.

He’d taken one look at Geralt, face as pale as sheet, and said, “Alright then. Sit down if you please.”

Geralt had been too stunned and perhaps too disoriented from blood loss to do anything else but comply. He watched as Jaskier fetched the medical supplies, rags, and a bowl of water with a speed and efficiency that took Geralt by surprise. 

“Well, you’re in luck, Witcher,” Jaskier said after he’d cleaned the wound with such thoroughness the rags were stained scarlet. “It missed your femoral artery. I’ll sew this up and I’m sure you’ll be back to Witchering in no time, with your healing.”

Jaskier threaded the needle through his skin with precision and skill, no tremors in his fingers. “You’ve done this before,” surmised Geralt.

“Picked up a few things during my time at the Academy. Had quite the eclectic course load,” Jaskier murmured.

“Hm.”

“Anything to avoid going back home to father dearest, you know.”

Jaskier’s head had remained stubbornly down, focused on stitching up Geralt’s wound, although Geralt suspected that wasn’t the only reason. When Jaskier finished, he’d rubbed ointment and fresh, cooling salve on Geralt’s skin and tenderly wrapped it up in a bandage. Geralt’s Witcher healing did the rest. 

The scar is small, light and pink and barely visible, proof of Jaskier’s handy ability with a needle. 

Jaskier doesn’t really ever talk about his childhood; everything Geralt knows, he’s pieced together from the bits of information the bard has dropped over the years. He knows Jaskier is a noble of some sort. He knows his home life was - fraught. 

He doesn’t know much else. 

Geralt sometimes wonders why Jaskier doesn’t share those pieces of himself. He certainly talks about everything else. He knows that Jaskier prefers bold, aromatic red wines over beer; that he favours his right side when he sleeps; that he enjoys mulberries and blackberries, but hates figs. He knows that Jaskier takes his tea with honey, no sugar, and tries to have a cup or two every night after a performance. He knows that Jaskier’s tongue tends to peek out from his lips when he composes a particularly good lyric, his hand flying over the page. He’s memorized the intoxicating way Jaskier bites on the smooth pink flesh of his bottom lip before he launches into one of his tirades about destiny or money or Valdo Marx.

Maybe Jaskier doesn’t feel like he can trust Geralt. That would be smart of him. Geralt’s not meant to be trusted. 

He remembers when he and the other boys were going through the Trials. His hair had already turned white from the extra mutagens the older Witchers pumped into his body. Vesemir sat them all down and told them, in no uncertain terms, that they shouldn’t get attached; that a Witcher’s life holds no warmth beyond the occasional whore’s touch. 

“Nobody wants a Witcher for anything except to hunt monsters,” Vesemir said, and he’d looked straight at Geralt. 

Geralt glances up from the page of his bestiary. Jaskier is getting ready for bed, shrugging out of his deep green doublet and his chemise. They’re staying in an inn tonight, something that’s becoming more of a regular occurrence for them with Jaskier’s extra coin. Jaskier stretches and his chest, flushed with just the barest hints of pink and covered in hair, is gloriously on display. Geralt’s stomach curls with heat, fingers tightening reflexively on the stem of his quill pen. It snaps in two. He still _wants_. 

Vesemir would strike him if he knew the extent to which Geralt thinks about Jaskier; if he could glimpse into Geralt’s mind and see all of the things he wants. He shouldn’t want. Not when Jaskier would ever reciprocate. Not when Geralt’s unworthy and undeserving of it. 

The noble thing to do would be to make Jaskier leave. But Geralt can’t make himself say the words, so he becomes surly, more withdrawn and monosyllabic than usual. 

When contracts start to dry up in the north, Geralt heads farther and farther south in search of work, and Jaskier comes along. 

Of course he does. 

The weather is oppressively hot and humid, Geralt’s leather armour sticking to him and burning him from the inside out. This far south, the people are resentful of the Northern Kingdoms; they’re less likely to be swayed by pretty words and loosen their purse strings for songs about chivalrous exploits in countries that have wronged them. 

But Jaskier doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even mention going back north, even as his own coin starts to run precipitously low. He continues to play, the fool, switching up the lyrics in his songs and composing new ones. He keeps at it, playing and playing until his fingers start to bleed one night. 

“Stop,” says Geralt. “Let me take a look.” 

They’re in the last room they’ll be able for a while. Jaskier’s expression is drawn tight, and there are dark circles underneath his eyes. He lifts up his palms. “Back to using our words, I see,” he snipes. 

Geralt ignores him, even as his stomach twists with guilt. Even in the dim candlelight, he can see that Jaskier’s fingers are long and slender, the dark red blood pearling on his fingertips making them even paler, like crushed roses on a slice of marble. It makes for such an achingly sweet picture and gods, Geralt _wants_. His cock firms up in his trousers as he thinks about how he wants to put one of those lovely thin fingers in his mouth and suck on it until Jaskier is as mad with desire as he is. 

He gets up and fetches his bag. The pots, jars, and potion bottles within it clink together. Jaskier watches Geralt open a small pot of ointment, uncharacteristically silent. The smell of mint permeates the room. 

“I know what you’re doing,” says Jaskier at last, as Geralt smears the salve on each one of the bard’s fingers. Geralt’s heart fills with ice. “It won’t work.”

“What won’t work?”

The fire’s hearth bathes the room in orange light. Jaskier’s face is awash with it. But his eyes remain wide and earnest and so very blue, his expression solemn. “You, pushing me away. It won’t work. I’m not going anywhere. So you may as well stop this - this nonsense that you’re doing.”

His voice is firm, brooks no argument. Jaskier is foolish in so many ways, and yet so brave. Even now, his eyes remain steadily on Geralt’s, unwavering and steady. 

The rush of relief Geralt feels is tainted with bittersweet disappointment. Jaskier wouldn’t be saying such things if he knew what Geralt wanted to do to him and with him. He’d probably never speak to Geralt again. 

Geralt grabs a few strips of linen from his bag and loops them around Jaskier’s fingers. “Don’t overdo it again,” he grunts. An olive branch. 

Jaskier smiles. His eyes are glowing from more than the firelight. “I’ll do my best, Witcher.”

*****

In Montecalvo, Geralt feels it. The first, crisp bite of frost in the air. It’ll be winter soon.

Geralt has started to _hate_ winter. 

Winter means reuniting with Vesemir and his brothers in the only place still safe for Witchers. It means a season’s respite from the wariness and fear that still clings to every human, despite Jaskier’s very best efforts. 

Geralt’s heart twists. 

Winter now means saying goodbye to Jaskier. The bard holes up at one of the northern courts or at the Academy for the cold months, while Geralt braves the treacherous path up the mountain to Kaer Morhen. Alone. His current Roach is getting much too old for the climb. He’ll have to stable her at the town closest to the keep this season. Geralt doesn’t think about how this year may be the last one he’ll have with this Roach. 

Every twenty years, the wheel repeats itself. He gets a new mare. Names her Roach. Such is the life on the Path. Witchers are meant to walk it alone. 

It hasn’t gotten easier. He still mourns. 

One day, just like Roach and all those before her, Jaskier will tire and leave too. It’s only a matter of time. 

He hears Jaskier shuffle in the bed beside him. Even though they’d lit a fire in the hearth, it’s long died down, and the room is still cold. Jaskier has been tossing and turning for the better part of an hour. Geralt waits with bated breath. 

Jaskier’s teeth are chattering. He clears his throat. “Say, ah, Geralt --”

Geralt’s heart, filled with sweet, agonizing yearning, climbs to his throat. “Come here, Jaskier,” he manages to beckon. 

He watches Jaskier exhale with relief, fingers grasping the cotton bed sheets tightly as Jaskier slides into bed with him. “Thank you,” he murmurs and Geralt watches those eyes flutter blissfully close. 

This isn’t the first time they’ve shared such close quarters over the years and yet, every time Geralt feels the soft skin of Jaskier’s body pressing up against his, his mouth pools with saliva and heat floods his abdomen. 

Shame, guilt, and self-loathing all swirl together inside Geralt’s chest; Jaskier’s looking for warmth and comfort and here is Geralt, desiring him. What kind of monster does that make him?

Jaskier snuffles and presses himself even closer. Geralt’s traitorous mouth dries up. Jaskier’s fingers curl into Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt knows with bone-deep certainty that if he were human, his heart would be racing right now. He tilts his head closer to Jaskier because he is a fool - a weak fool. 

“There’s this annual bardic competition held in Shaerrawedd the first week of spring,” Jaskier murmurs. His breath is warm on Geralt’s neck, and smells faintly of the cider and spiced honey cake he’d had for dinner. “It’s a very prestigious affair, all the best bards on the Continent make an appearance, including that pompous arse, Valdo Marx.”

Geralt hums, an unmistakable fondness swelling inside of him. “I’m guessing you’ll be making an appearance.”

“You know I can’t resist the opportunity to show up that arrogant bastard.” Jaskier takes a breath. He’s twisting his fingers over and over again in Geralt’s shirt. He’s _nervous._ Geralt finds himself hopelessly endeared. “I was hoping - maybe you and I can meet there after winter? I know you’ll be heading off to Kaer Morhen soon.”

It’s said with quiet, fervent hope. Geralt’s heart thuds. Jaskier’s head is tilted downwards, still fiddling with Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt finds himself wishing he could see those blue eyes. He wants to let himself hope. 

Shaerrawedd is in Kaedwen. Same as Kaer Morhen. 

“In need of a bodyguard again?” Geralt asks, throat tight, and he regrets the words as soon as he says them. Fool, fool, _fool_. 

Jaskier tips his head up. The room is dark as midnight. Jaskier shouldn’t be able to see Geralt’s face - can’t. But he’s somehow staring straight at Geralt. Geralt can see his face clearly. He wonders if he’s meant to. There’s a small smile on Jaskier’s lips, but it’s brittle, almost sad. 

“No. Just a friend,” he says eventually. His fingers slip from Geralt’s shirt. Geralt misses them almost immediately. 

Friends. 

That’s all Jaskier ever wants them to be. That’s more than Geralt should even ask for. Geralt shouldn’t want or need more from Jaskier, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting and needing all the same. 

*****

Jaskier handily wins the bardic competition. Of course he does. He never doubted it. Geralt forgets sometimes, exactly how prolific of a bard Jaskier is. 

He’s grinning as he accepts his reward - a bronze trophy and a velvet pouch filled with a generous amount of coin. 

Geralt watches him. He’s done nothing but watch him since he got to Shaerrawedd. He can’t imagine doing anything else. All the songs Jaskier sang at the competition were about him. 

It makes sense. Those are the songs that made him famous in the first place. It doesn’t mean anything else. 

Up on the stage, Jaskier catches Geralt’s eye, and his smile widens. 

*****

From Kaedwen, Geralt and Jaskier set off towards Temeria. Many things hibernate during winter. With the first blush of spring, the ground is softening, the grass is growing, teeming with life once more. With monsters. 

The mayor of Ellander invites them over to his estate. A forktail living in the forest right outside of town has been terrorizing the people, killing farm animals for food and ravaging the crops too. Merchants carrying vital goods like salt, spices, and wool have stopped coming to the city entirely. 

Geralt nods, absent-minded, as the mayor speaks, mentally checking over his supplies. He has a healthy supply of Golden Oriole, and all the ingredients he needs to make Grapeshot. It’ll be a bitch of a job, taking down a bloody forktail, but the mayor is willing to pay handsomely. Geralt can use the coin. Maybe buy something nice for Jaskier with it. 

“I’m so glad you passed through our city, Master Witcher,” says the mayor, and Geralt fights the urge to roll his eyes at the unnecessary formality. One of the unexpected side effects of a better reputation. Respect is more handily given, but only for the services a Witcher can render. “Truth be told, I first sought help from the sorceress who set up shop here a fortnight ago and she said a Witcher would come here soon enough.”

Geralt blinks, surprised. “A sorceress?”

Next to him, he feels Jaskier stiffen, body drawing up tight like a bow. “Oh you have _got_ to be kidding --”

Geralt scents her before he sees her. The unmistakable scent of lilac and gooseberries is in the air. 

“Geralt.”

“- me,” Jaskier finishes, cursing vehemently under his breath. 

Geralt turns around. His heart swells, a smile pulling at his lips. “Yennefer,” he says.

She looks stunning, as always, in a black gown with gold and auburn beads sewn into it. It’s like she’s lit from within. Her hair is pulled back into a low plait. That’s new. It suits her. 

Geralt’s happy to see her. He always is. It’s been too long since their paths last crossed. 

“I thought you might be coming this way,” says Yennefer with a sly smile. She’s standing so close Geralt can fully appreciate her wonderful signature mix of lilac and gooseberries, and just the faintest trace of ozone and brimstone, of the Chaos Yennefer so handily wields. 

“And you decided to just...what? Wait in the wings? Quite creepy, even for you, Yennefer,” Jaskier snipes. His arms are crossed over his chest, jostling the lute on his back. A defensive pose. 

Yennefer angles her head and narrows her eyes. Her smile turns sharp, like a shark that just smelled blood. Geralt fights the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Jaskier,” she says. “I didn’t even notice you were there.”

“Don’t suppose you notice anything that’s not right under your nose.”

“Only if it’s of no consequence to me.”

Jaskier splutters, his cheeks pinking rather prettily with indignation. He opens and closes his mouth repeatedly but no sound comes out. Bested by Yennefer once again. Geralt wonders how someone so witty gets knocked off-kilter so often.

“Your _face_ is of no consequence,” mutters Jaskier, and Yennefer’s smile widens, knowing she’s won. Her eyes turn to Geralt once more. A shade of purple like the sky right after a storm, when the air is saturated with moisture. In almost a century on the Path, he’s never seen anything like it. 

“I have some commitments with the mayor but,” Yennefer says. “Perhaps we can have a glass of wine in my quarters this evening, Geralt.”

It’s a request but it’s not phrased like one. Yennefer doesn’t concern herself with formalities. She goes after what she wants, proud and unabashed.

Jaskier’s brow furrows, lips puffing out in annoyance, but for once Geralt isn’t paying attention to him. His eyes are on Yennefer. The way they always are when they happen to be in a room together. “Perhaps,” he says, but it’s so clear he means _yes_. 

*****

Jaskier retires to the room the mayor has put them up in, and later that night, Geralt leaves to find Yennefer. 

There’s that glass of wine, and then dinner and then, Geralt’s on his back, and Yennefer is riding him. Her red nails dig into the meat of his shoulders as she undulates above him. Geralt grips her hips hard enough to bruise, plants his feet on the mattress, and matches her thrust for thrust, Yennefer’s answering moans of approval making him hotter and more desperate. 

She looks glorious, perched above him, breasts firm and tempting, hair a wonderful, riotous mess of curls. The candlelight paints her golden brown skin the colours of a summer sunset. Her lips are red, kiss-bitten. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Yennefer spits out, tipping her head, eyes squeezed shut. She arches her back, taking Geralt’s cock that much deeper. He lets out a broken groan at the new angle, the incredible feel of her all around him. There’s sweat gathering in the dip of Yennefer’s clavicle, and he surges up to lick it. It tastes like her. Like the soaps and oils she favours, like magic and raw power. Geralt wants more of it. Can’t get enough of it on his tongue. The roll of his hips grows sloppier and more frantic the closer he gets to his climax. One of his hands moves to the globes of Yennefer’s pert arse, bouncing her up and down. The other reaches between the valley of her legs. 

Yennefer bites his lip so hard it splits when she comes. It’s enough to send Geralt over the edge with her. 

Later, when the sweat is cooling off both their bodies, Geralt takes out his mortar and pestle and starts to grind together the ingredients he needs for Grapeshot. Yennefer is lounging on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching him. She’s shrugged on a lightweight purple silk robe and her hand pillows her cheek. There’s a bruise, dark and lovely, right at the top of her breast. 

“I noticed you’ve earned some new scars since we last saw each other,” says Yennefer. Geralt’s naked back is entirely exposed to her. He knows what scar she’s talking about.

He shoots her a look. “They do come with the job,” Geralt says dryly. He goes back to his work. Grapeshot is a highly sensitive bomb that requires utmost care and precision to make. The ingredients need to be ground into a fine, powdery substance, and then delicately enveloped in tanned leather with a wick of twine. 

Yennefer shifts, and Geralt feels her warm fingers splay on his back, tracing over that one scar again and again. “This one’s quite far down,” she murmurs. Geralt turns his head a fraction. Their eyes meet. “Looks to have been properly stitched up.”

“Hm,” Geralt says. There’s a nervous prickle building at the back of his scalp. 

“It’s healed rather nicely too. Someone took great care to do it right. I’m assuming dearest Jaskier was the one to patch you all up.”

Geralt sets the mortal and pestle down and angles himself so he can face her fully. “Yen. What are you trying to say?”

“Well if you prefer me to be blunt,” says Yennefer. “I’m simply pointing out how much you’d like to fuck the bard, Geralt.”

He thinks he’s probably having a stroke. It’s the only explanation. “What?” 

“You can, you know. Fuck him,” Yennefer adds kindly. Her eyes are soft, the way they only are when it’s just the two of them. Her index finger is drawing nonsensical patterns on Geralt’s arm. 

All the fight deflates out of Geralt at once. He won’t lie to Yennefer. Not about this. Not when she’s trusting him to see her like this, with all her walls and defenses down. Open. Vulnerable. Beautiful. 

Brave. 

“I - it doesn’t matter,” says Geralt, flexing his fingers on the sheets. He frowns; avoids Yennefer’s eyes. “He doesn’t want me. And I can’t --”

“You can’t what? Want? Please,” Yennefer scoffs. “You want me.”

Yes. Yes, he does. Undeniably so. Even if he’d wanted to fight against the helpless pull he feels for Yennefer, he still would have ended up here. With her. Geralt knows. He’s tried. 

And yet - here he is. 

Somewhere, Vesemir is shaking his head in disappointment. _“Don’t get attached,”_ he had kept saying. Geralt’s starting to think that advice is worth fuck all, if not getting attached is causing him all this torment. 

“Far be it from me to tell you what you should do here, Geralt. But you shouldn’t be afraid to want,” says Yennefer. 

“Yennefer,” says Geralt, a little bit desperate. “You know that I - you and I --”

She puts a hand on his cheek, silencing him. “Will be fine. Whatever the future has in store for us, we’ll weather it together. But you’re allowed to weather it with Jaskier too.”

Yennefer’s smooth palm grazes the fine stubble of his jawline. Geralt sets his teeth, a swirl of emotions brewing in his chest at once. “Why are you doing this?”

There’s a pause during which it seems like Yennefer is collecting her thoughts. Her other hand idly picks at the furs on the bed. “I don’t know what you see in him,” she says at last. “But I see the way you look at him. I see what he brings out in you. And I want you to have that. You deserve to have that.”

Geralt’s throat feels tight. Once again, he finds himself thinking about the mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. Immovable and imposing, yet forever changed by strong, persistent winds. 

Geralt thinks he might have a type. 

Yennefer takes his hand. Threads their fingers together. Her eyes bore into his. “It’s not shameful to want,” says Yennefer. “You can want me and Jaskier. You can have me and Jaskier. You can have absolutely anything you want. I want that for you.”

He looks at Yennefer; looks at their entwined hands. Geralt lets out a shaky breath. 

*****

In the morning, Geralt packs a bag of White Honey and Grapeshot and a few other essentials, saddles up Roach, and gets ready to leave in search of the forktail. Both silver and steel swords are strapped to his back. 

Jaskier was oddly quiet at breakfast, moving the food on his plate more than he ate it, looking morose. He smelled sad. When Yennefer came into the dining hall, his scent spiked in a way Geralt still can’t stop thinking about. He smelled sharp, tart. Like a freshly squeezed lime. 

Jealousy. Jaskier smelled jealous. 

Even now, Geralt refuses to hope. He looks at Yennefer. “Can I leave him with you?”

Jaskier bristles and huffs. His hands move to his hips. He’s wearing burgundy trousers today. Geralt is most definitely _not_ staring. “I’m not a _child_ , Geralt. I don’t need someone to watch over me.”

“Debatable,” interjects Yennefer with a smug grin. Jaskier makes a series of high-pitched, offended noises. 

Geralt wisely chooses not to comment. He climbs up on Roach. “I’ll try and be back quickly. Behave,” he says, and means it for both of them. 

Geralt sets Roach at a trot and leaves.

*****

Yennefer watches Geralt until he’s nothing but a spot against the bright blue sky. There’s an awkward, loaded silence that descends immediately after his departure. Next to her, Jaskier fidgets, pointedly looking down at his hands. He’s spinning a golden ring over and over again. 

Well, bollocks to that. Yennefer has never been one for awkwardness. “Shall we have a drink,” she says. It’s a question, but Yennefer doesn’t phrase it like one. She doesn’t wait for Jaskier to answer, spinning on her heel. 

Jaskier, predictably, follows her. “It’s hardly even noon, Yennefer,” he protests. 

She raises an incredulous eyebrow. “When has that ever stopped you?”

They end up in a lavish sitting room with soft rugs and large, plush couches. Yennefer immediately conjures two goblets of red wine. She takes a seat and wordlessly extends one of them towards Jaskier. He looks at her silently for a moment. 

Jaskier’s shoulders drop and he sighs. “Fuck it,” he says, and takes the goblet, sitting down next to her. “Why not.”

“Why not indeed,” Yennefer says, bringing the goblet to her lips. She takes a sip. It tastes like fruit and the earth, blueberries and coffee, and she lets it envelope her tongue. 

Jaskier makes a sort of pleased note in the back of his throat when he takes a mouthful. “I’m assuming this drink comes with an agenda.” His tone is light, but Yennefer sees the nervous twinge of his fingers as he plucks a stray string from one of the pillows on the couch. 

“Now why would you go assume that?” she hums. Takes another sip. The wine is rich and potent. They’ll both feel the effects of it soon. 

“Why else would you willingly have a drink with me?”

The bard is shrewd. Smart. He hides it well behind his endless chatter and dramatic airs, but Yennefer’s always suspected that it was a carefully constructed exterior. It’s not just anyone that Sigismund Dijkstra recruits to spy for the Redanian Intelligence after all. 

“Point well-taken.” She conjures a long-stemmed glass pipe; dips into the silk pouch at her waist to retrieve some herbs that she packs into the bowl. “Fancy a smoke as well? Cintran herb. No other herb like it in the whole Continent.”

Jaskier purses his lips, eyes narrowed. Yennefer can almost see the gears turning in his head as he makes a calculation. He takes another large mouthful of wine, setting his cup firmly on the wooden side table. “Yes,” says Jaskier. “I do find myself fancying a smoke.” 

The only light is a lone candelabrum perched on a side table on the far side of the space. It’s dim, but not too dark. Yennefer is able to light the pipe with ease, inhaling a deep lungful before passing it over to Jaskier. They’re soon surrounded by wisps of white-grey smoke. 

Minutes pass. Or hours. The pipe is long forgotten. It’s either on the table or on the floor or even between the couch cushions, for all that Yennefer knows. She loses track of time as her mind goes pleasantly hazy from the cocktail of intoxicants coursing through her body. Jaskier looks to be in a similar state, his shoulders finally relaxed, his body practically melting into the couch. There’s a drunken, happy smile on his face. 

It’s her time to strike. 

“Jaskier,” says Yennefer. She’s only slurring a little. “You were quite maudlin at breakfast today.” 

“You noticed? Yennefer, I’m so flattered by your concern,” Jaskier teases.

“Don’t be. You didn’t hide it very well. Was it because of Geralt?”

Jaskier glances over at her. The whites of his eyes are tinged a little with red. “Is that why you got me high and drunk, Yennefer? To talk about Geralt?”

 _Gods_ she feels fantastic. All of her muscles are loosened. She really should do this more often. Yennefer stretches over the couch. Her face and Jaskier’s are close enough she can smell the wine and the Cintran Skelligan herbs on his breath. “Among other things,” she says. “He’s quite something isn’t he?”

Jaskier’s eyes go dreamy. “Yeah,” he sighs. “He’s just so brave and selfless and kind - even when the world has been so unbearably unkind to him -- and handsome and --”

“Good in bed,” Yennefer finishes. Jaskier flushes and glares at her, though the force of it is considerably lessened when he hiccups. 

“That’s not fair,” says Jaskier. “I don’t know that. You know I have no way of knowing that.”

“You could.”

“No. No I can’t. That’s a privilege for you and you alone I fear,” Jaskier’s tone turns bitter. “Oh, and the whores of course. Can’t forget about those.”

Yennefer takes a thoughtful sip of her goblet, filled to the brim once more by her magic, turning the words over in her head. “You have nothing to be envious of, Jaskier. You’re important to Geralt too.”

“That might be true. But I’m not important to him the way you are. The way I - the way I’d like to be,” Jaskier admits quietly, mouth downturned. His hand returns to plucking at errant strings on the couch pillow. 

Yennefer studies him, quiet and contemplative. There’s a burning in her throat, but it’s not from the smoking. She drums fingers on her thigh. “Jaskier...what do you do, when you find something - _someone_ \- you want?”

Jaskier lets out a self-conscious little laugh. His hand pushes back the fringe of his hair. “I hold onto it with everything I have,” he says. 

The answer should surprise Yennefer, but it doesn’t. There’s a feeling bubbling inside of her, something she doesn’t have the words to describe. It’s like a puzzle piece finally slots itself into place. They share a similar view of the world, her and Jaskier. Two sides of the same coin. No wonder Geralt gravitated towards them both. 

Yennefer downs the rest of her goblet. She’s warm all over. Must be the alcohol. “You and I, Jaskier, when we see things we want, we go after them. We are singularly focused in getting and keeping what we want,” she tells him. “Geralt is not like us. He believes he’s not allowed to want anything or anyone. It is our job to rid him of that misconception.”

Something shifts in Jaskier’s expression. There are dozens of emotions brewing in his eyes. He really is something of an open book. Yennefer briefly wonders what that would be like, to let everyone know how she feels. Perhaps Jaskier could teach her someday. Perhaps she would even let him, and oh, wouldn’t that be a thrilling possibility. 

Slowly, Jaskier nods. Yennefer believes he finally gets it. 

*****

When Geralt arrives back at the mayor’s estate, exhausted, the moon is a crescent in the sky. He’s covered in dirt and grime and gods know what else. The forktail’s severed head is sitting in one of Roach’s saddlebags. 

He doesn’t think anything of it when he can’t find Yennefer or Jaskier at first, simply tracks their scent in the air. 

He reconsiders when he finds Jaskier sprawled on some couch, fast asleep. There’s a drunken flush high on his cheeks. His mouth is pink and open, his hair slightly mussed, and the first couple buttons of his chemise are undone. Geralt looks away. 

Yennefer is leaning over the balcony, a glass pipe between her fingers. The moonlight is bouncing off her perfect curls. 

She turns slightly when he approaches her, exhaling a puff of smoke into the air. It goes up and up and up, before dissipating in the night air. “You reek,” Yennefer says mildly. “Would you like some?” She offers him the pipe. 

“Uh. No,” says Geralt. There’s a persistent niggling at the back of his neck and down his back that he can’t shake. It’s the same feeling he gets when he’s on a hunt, shortly before the monster makes itself known. Geralt tips his head back towards the sitting room. “What did you do to Jaskier?” he asks her, suspicious.

To his surprise, Yennefer chuckles. “It’s adorable, how concerned you always are about Jaskier. I thought it would’ve been just the djinn, but it really is all the time, isn’t it?”

Her tone isn’t judging or condescending. Geralt feels the need to defend himself anyway. “I have to. You know how he is. With you - I like that I don’t have to worry about you in the same way. I know you’re able to take care of yourself.”

Yennefer smiles and takes another hit of her pipe. “Good,” she says. Another inhale, and she magics the pipe away. She continues to stare straight ahead as she says, “I have to leave soon.”

Geralt’s heart tightens. He looks at her, drinks in her profile, the gorgeous curve of her nose, the Cupid’s bow of her mouth. “When?”

“Tonight.”

Geralt absolutely hates it when she leaves. He selfishly wishes she wouldn’t. He misses her already. 

He knows she must. Distance will never erode the place they hold in each other’s lives. “I understand.”

Yennefer finally turns to face him. Her face is bathed in moonlight. She brings her hand up to his face and he leans into the warmth of her palm. “We’ll always have each other, you and I. But our ambitions will make our paths diverge from time to time. You need someone close. Someone whose path resembles yours.” Her eyes shift to the side. 

“Yen --”

Yennefer kisses him. It’s deep and soft and lovely. Geralt wants this again and again. “Let yourself have what you want, Geralt. The only person’s permission you need is your own.”

She conjures up a portal and, between one breath and the next, she’s gone. 

*****

Geralt doesn’t really sleep that night. The bath doesn’t help him unwind as much as he hopes, and meditating only does so much to quiet the riot of his thoughts. He brings Jaskier back to their room and puts him in bed. The bard doesn’t so much as stir. Geralt’s oddly heartened by that. 

In the morning, he goes find the mayor to drop off the severed head and collect his payment. The mayor is profusely grateful, and offers to board him for another night. Geralt is surprised to hear himself agreeing. 

Jaskier awakens at noon, unquestioning of his surroundings, implicitly trusting of Geralt. He’s bleary-eyed and a few shades paler from his monstrous hangover. 

He still looks pretty. Fuck. 

Geralt quietly hands him a diluted White Honey that’s safe enough for him to drink. Jaskier shoots him a grateful look as he takes the bottle and downs it all in one go. Geralt watches the bob of his throat, tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss up its length and drag his fingers through that mop of hair that falls into Jaskier’s still half-lidded blue eyes. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier eventually croaks out, his voice still rough with sleep. It’s lovely. Colour is returning to his cheeks, the White Honey already making its way through his system. “You’re always taking care of me and - well, I appreciate it Geralt. More than you know.”

Geralt shuffles uncomfortably. He’s used to Jaskier’s flowery style of speech, but this feels different somehow. More real. He grunts, “We’re friends aren’t we?”

Jaskier is silent for a long time. Longer than Geralt’s used to from him. It makes Geralt nervous. “Yes,” he says finally, an odd tone in his voice. Jaskier’s face does something complicated, too many emotions passing over it for Geralt to parse out. “Friends.”

Geralt decides to let it slide. It’s not like it’ll come up again.

*****

It comes up again.

*****

Jaskier goes oddly quiet for about a week. It’s not the silent treatment, exactly - Geralt knows for a fact that Jaskier is unable to stay quiet even if his life depended on it, if the bard’s interactions with cuckolded spouses are anything to go by - but it’s not his seemingly aimless, endless chatter either. It’s somewhere in between, tinged with the very obvious smell of frustration. 

Geralt isn’t really sure how to ask, how to put into words how much he misses the way Jaskier fills the day with his voice, so he doesn’t pry. 

Jaskier breaks one night shortly after they’ve secured a room in Gors Velen. 

“Friends?” he says suddenly and out of nowhere, smelling frustrated and of hurt tinged with sadness. 

Geralt stops whetting his sword and looks up, frowning. “What?”

“Friends,” Jaskier repeats, body nearly vibrating. “Is that really all we are to each other? Friends?”

Geralt stiffens. If his heart didn’t always beat as steady as a metronome, it would be racing right now. He sets both sword and stone down. “What,” he says evenly. 

Jaskier doesn’t seem put-off. He stands up straighter. “Yennefer and I had a chat and --”

“Yennefer,” Geralt growls, cursing under his breath. Jaskier is undeterred. His eyes are so serious and so blue, as ridiculously defiant and as certain as he was all those years ago in Posada, just eighteen years old. 

“Geralt,” says Jaskier. His voice is trembling, but his fingers are steady at his side, not fidgeting or spinning his rings. “I need you. I want you. In ways that very, _very_ much exceed friendship. How do you feel about me?”

Geralt grits his teeth so hard his jaw begins to ache. He feels too hot. “You don’t --”

“Oh no, no, no, no. Don’t you dare say I don’t know what I want. I’m a selfish person, Geralt. I know exactly what I want. I want you. I’ve always wanted you. I just didn’t think that someone like you --” Jaskier lets out a small, self-deprecating laugh that lances right through Geralt, “I didn’t think _you_ could ever want _me_.”

“Why?” It’s the only thing Geralt can manage to say, and he spits it out like it hurts him. “Why would you ever want me? You’re famous, a noble, a renowned talent. You could have anyone you want. I’m a _Witcher_. I could never give you all of the comforts and fineries you enjoy.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I can get those things for myself just fine, thank you,” he says hotly. His expression becomes more vulnerable. “Geralt. You’re - you’re kind. You’re honest. In a world so obsessed with greed, you _care_. I know you’d move heaven and earth if it meant I was safe. I promise you, I’m not in short supply of reasons for why I want you.”

Geralt feels a little bit like he’s been knocked over sideways. Like he’s a mountain being shaped by strong, persistent winds. 

“Now,” says Jaskier, soft and vulnerable and sweet. “Do you want me?”

Geralt’s throat is too tight. He looks at Jaskier - at those blue eyes, that mouth, that unfailing certainty - and he wants, fuck, he _wants_. He wants him any way Jaskier will have him. “I don’t know how to let myself have this,” he confesses hoarsely. 

There are hands cradling his face. Geralt looks into endless blue eyes. “That’s okay,” Jaskier murmurs. “I can show you.”

Slowly, Jaskier brings his mouth to Geralt’s. It’s barely a press of lips, but it’s warm and it’s _Jaskier_ , and Geralt makes a sound like he’s been wounded deep in his throat. It’s all the invitation Jaskier needs to deepen the kiss, and then his tongue is touching the seam of Geralt’s lips and Geralt finally, _finally_ gets to have a taste. 

When they pull apart, Jaskier’s eyes are entirely swallowed up by black. The smell of arousal is thick and heavy and perfect in the air. “What do you like in bed, darling? Tell me what you want,” says Jaskier, voice low and rough, like gravel. 

Gods, Geralt wants, he wants. He wants Jaskier on top of him and under him; he wants to kiss up and down the length of his body and leave love bites in the soft flesh of his thighs. He wants to make Jaskier feel good. He wants it all. He’s trembling with the sheer force of his desire. 

“You,” he says. “I want you. Whatever you’ll give me.”

Jaskier kisses him again; gets his hands on the laces of Geralt’s trousers. “I’ll make it so good for you, darling.”

They divest each other of their clothes with frantic quickness. Geralt walks Jaskier backwards to the bed until the backs of Jaskier’s knees hit the mattress and he’s sent sprawling. Never one to lose an opportunity, Jaskier spreads his legs, slow and wicked, and licks his lips, eyes wide. His cock is hard and flushed, curving up towards his belly already. Geralt’s mouth waters. 

He straddles Jaskier’s body, bracketing him in between huge arms. He can feel the minute trembles of unfettered desire underneath him. Geralt’s so hard it hurts; his cock like a steel bar against his stomach. He watches the appetizing line of Jaskier’s throat and dips down, sucking a bruise there just like he’s always wanted. Jaskier moans and it’s the loveliest sound he’s ever heard. 

Geralt wants more of it. 

He kisses his way down Jaskier’s chest, the flat planes of his abdomen, the seam of his thighs. Through it all, Jaskier litters him with soft praises and compliments. It sends a rush of warmth down Geralt’s spine.

Geralt ducks further down, his nose brushing against the weeping head of Jaskier’s cock. He looks up, a question tangled up in his throat. 

Jaskier voices it for him, reads him so well. Like he always does. Like he’s done for more than a decade now. “You want to?”

Geralt swallows and nods. Heat curls in his belly. 

“Go on then,” Jaskier encourages, eyes dark and filled with naked desire. It’s all the permission Geralt needs. He ducks his head down, and takes Jaskier’s perfect cock into his mouth. Jaskier’s breath stutters. He tastes like salt and musk, and Geralt bobs his head, relaxes his jaw, and takes him deeper. 

“Oh, _sweetheart_. That’s it, right there.” Jaskier arches his back and winds his fingers into Geralt’s hair. He pulls, hard enough to make Geralt’s eyes water, and Geralt grunts, his cock growing impossibly hard. It should be impossible, that Jaskier already knows Geralt likes the slightest edge of pain with his pleasure; that Geralt enjoys making his lovers absolutely lose their mind with desire. Jaskier knows it all the same. 

Geralt tongues the head of Jaskier’s cock before swallowing him up once more, alternating both pressure and speed. His fingers run down Jaskier’s thighs, dipping to fondle his balls. “Geralt I - I don’t want to finish too soon,” Jaskier sobs brokenly, fingers twisting in Geralt’s hair, guiding him off. Geralt lets go with a wet, obscene pop. 

Jaskier kisses him. “That was marvelous, darling,” he breathes, and Geralt chuckles. He lets Jaskier guide him on his back, watching him with dark eyes. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Jaskier whispers, kissing down Geralt’s chest, skin and scar tissue both. Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed in the best way possible. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Geralt’s throat bobs. He feels brave. “Me too.”

Jaskier presses a lingering kiss to each of his hip bones. “On your elbows and knees for me, darling,” he says. 

Arousal curling hot and heavy in his stomach, Geralt does as he’s told. Like this, he can’t see Jaskier, but he can feel the warmth of his body pressed up behind him, can smell Jaskier’s desire for him and he shudders.

“So perfect. So good for me,” Jaskier says, caressing Geralt’s flank, his breath hot on Geralt’s neck, and a whimper nearly forces itself past Geralt’s teeth. 

“Jaskier,” he says, his body trembling with anticipation. 

“Don’t worry darling. I’m going to take such good care of you.” 

Geralt nearly jerks when he feels the press of a hot, wet tongue at his hole. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, the feeling of it so good it hurts, but Jaskier holds him tight and doesn’t let up, is relentless, opening him up with his tongue so well until Geralt thinks he could be fucked just from this. 

Jaskier reaches around, tugging on Geralt’s cock with smooth, even strokes and Geralt groans, pressing his face into his elbow, rocking back into both Jaskier’s hand and Jaskier’s tongue. He feels flayed alive, played like an instrument between Jaskier’s very capable hand and tongue. His mind is whiting out with pleasure, his climax building up steadily inside of him, and yet when he comes it still takes him by surprise. 

“Beautiful,” says Jaskier, voice hoarse and rough. He brings up his hand and licks Geralt’s spend from his fingers. Geralt hears him move, the sound of glass clinking together, and then the mattress dipping again with Jaskier’s weight. 

Geralt groans. “Jaskier,” he says. He doesn’t think he can say anything else right now. He doesn’t want to. 

“I’m going to get you ready for my cock now, love, okay?” Jaskier says, removing the stopper from a bottle of oil, and Geralt nods. Jaskier pours a liberal amount of it in his fingers, rubbing them together to warm it up. The smell of chamomile surrounds them. 

Loosened already from Jaskier’s tongue, Geralt takes two fingers with ease. Just as Jaskier promised, he takes great care in opening Geralt up, twisting and curling and stretching his fingers wonderfully, all the while murmuring praises about how good Geralt is. It feels incredible. Geralt never wants this to stop. 

Time hazes out, Geralt lost in the rush of Jaskier’s fingers inside of him and Jaskier’s voice in his ear. His cock fills up again; bobs heavily between his legs. Then, Jaskier retracts all four - _and when did that happen?_ Geralt wonders dizzily - of his fingers. “Ready?” Jaskier asks. 

Geralt grits his teeth against the sob in his throat. “ _Yes_.” 

There is no pain as Jaskier enters him in increments, feeding his cock inside Geralt inch by glorious inch. His forehead falls on Geralt’s shoulder, his jaw tight. “ _Fuck_ , Geralt,” he hisses. “You feel incredible.”

Geralt can only make noiseless gasps of pleasure. He’s lost all grasp on words. 

It goes on for forever and not long enough; Jaskier is ruthless in the pursuit, fucking against that spot inside of Geralt that makes him see stars time and time again. Geralt now understands the trail of beds and lovers that Jaskier’s left in his wake, why it seemed like none of his lovers could get enough of him.

And now he’s all Geralt’s. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. He wants to come. He wants to come so badly. 

“I have you, sweetheart,” Jaskier says and he finally, blessedly curls his hand around Geralt’s cock, keeping one arm tight on Geralt’s shoulder. It only takes a few strokes of his hand before Geralt paints the bed white with his come, and Jaskier comes soon after that, panting for breath.

Afterwards, they lie on their sides, facing each other. The fire in their room is still going strong. Jaskier has his head pillowed underneath one arm, the other is in Geralt’s hair, curling locks of white between his fingers. For once, Geralt stares straight into Jaskier’s eyes, unafraid, knowing that the affection he feels is reflected in the blue of those irises. Something big and important is swelling inside of him. 

“I want to keep you,” Geralt admits quietly. 

“You have me,” Jaskier says. His hand rests on Geralt’s chest like it belongs there. “Any way you like.”

Later that night, when the fire is down to embers and the candles nearly burnt out, Geralt takes Jaskier on his back. He opens him up with three fingers and plenty of oil, and he finds that he enjoys Jaskier like this too, all hard and needy for him, face flushed and cock leaking steadily on his belly. He curls his fingers and Jaskier thumps his head on the pillow and lets out the most beautiful, choked off noises. 

“Come on, Geralt. Fuck me like you mean it,” Jaskier pants out, raking blunt fingernails across the broad expanse of Geralt’s back. Geralt hisses. Gods fucking damn it, he loves it, the wild abandon with which Jaskier wants him.

Geralt retracts his fingers and replaces them with his cock. He goes slow, as slow as he dares, and fuck, Jaskier is hot and wet and perfect, and it’s everything he’s ever wanted and more. He thrusts, goes hard and fast and deep, and Jaskier keeps asking for more, keeps _demanding_ more. Geralt hikes up Jaskier’s legs on his shoulders, sinks in that much deeper, and gives it to him. 

The way Jaskier tightens around Geralt’s cock when he comes is a feeling Geralt is never going to forget. He wants to wait, wants to fuck Jaskier through the aftershocks of his orgasm, but the pressure is incredible, and he comes soon after.

Geralt places a sloppy kiss at Jaskier’s temple and laces their trembling fingers together. 

*****

Geralt wakes up the next morning tangled up with Jaskier in sheets that smell of sweat and sex; of _them_. Jaskier is asleep on his chest. Geralt finally caves, and runs his hand through that luxurious mess of brown hair like he’s always been wanting to. 

Jaskier stirs and hums. He blinks blue eyes open and Geralt can see the recollection of yesterday play out on his face. Jaskier smiles. “Good morning,” he says.

“Morning,” says Geralt. He watches as Jaskier stretches his arms high above his head. Jaskier is beautiful in the morning, and Geralt can’t believe he gets to have this; gets to have Jaskier and Yennefer both, that they want and need him the way he wants and needs them. Jaskier seems to sense the directions of his thoughts and leans up to kiss him, smiling into it, making him believe. 

“So,” says Jaskier. “Where to next, Witcher?” His body is still sleep-warm. Geralt can’t wait to have him, over and over again, for the rest of his life. 

There will be plenty of time for that. 

Geralt thinks. He thinks about what he wants. For the first time, he doesn’t push it down. 

“Let’s head to the coast,” Geralt says. 

**Author's Note:**

> Koliada was a pre-Christianity winter festival that was celebrated across Eastern Europe. I wanted to reference a winter holiday that would pay homage to the Slavic roots of the Witcher.
> 
> Inspiration for the lute strings made of monster guts came from this very excellent [Tumblr post](https://rionsanura.tumblr.com/post/614662211945857024/witcher-fic-lute-psa) by rionsanura. 
> 
> If you want to come talk to me about these hopeless idiots, I'm on [Tumblr](http://marvelousmaize.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
